Post-depression mornings are often so torrid.
Many indeed are quite nasty and horrid.
You struggle some mornings to get out of bed,
So you lie there and suffer and wish you were dead.
But somewhere inside does a neurone ignite:
“Get up, you idiot, get up for the fight.”
You do what you’re told, get up for ablutions,
Not looking for answers or even solutions.
Stroll into the kitchen, not living, not dead,
Scrambling thoughts in your crazy old head.
Flick on the toaster and kettle for tea,
Then out to the deck where you know you should be.
Your fog seems to clear as the birds start to chatter.
It’s there you discover tu penses don’t matter.
***************
Hmmmm!!
Depression looks backwards.
Anxiety ahead.
Now is the moment
Get out of your head.
**************
And so!!
At the end of this day,
here’s what you should say
no matter how cruddy it felt,
You’re sitting here cosy,
a little bit dozy,
having played out the cards you were dealt.
